Meet the New Boss
by heisey
Summary: After almost two years on the job, Jim is suddenly transferred to another precinct.
1. Chapter 1

**Meet the New Boss**

_Chapter 1_

"Jimmy!" Christie called from the bedroom, "You'd better hurry up, you're going to be late for work."

Jim ran his fingertips quickly over his face, to check for spots he'd missed, then reached for the towel to wipe the remnants of shaving cream from his face, before answering his wife. "And whose fault is that?" he asked with a smile.

"Not mine."

What d'you mean? You started it."

"Yes, but you're such a pushover."

"I guess so," Jim agreed as he walked into the bedroom to finish dressing.

"I have to get going." Christie kissed him and turned to leave. Jim reached out for her, attempting to grab her ass, but she deftly eluded his grasp.

"Hey," he protested, "don't be mean to the blind guy."

"Haven't I done enough for you already this morning?" she asked, smiling. "See you tonight," she added as she walked out of the bedroom. He heard her steps crossing to the front door, then the thump of the door closing.

"But I thought we were just getting started," he mused, still smiling.

As Jim rode the subway to work, the significance of the date suddenly hit him: the third anniversary of the shooting which had blinded him was only a week away. He didn't want to think about that day, or the days that followed it. When he remembered that time, it always brought back the sick disbelief that had twisted his guts whenever he couldn't suppress the thought that he would never see again. If he was certain of anything then, it was that his life would never again be "normal." Any possibility of a "normal" life was forever lost, along with his eyesight. Later, when he was in rehab, it was all he could do not to laugh at the people who assured him so earnestly that he could have a "normal" life again. Now he had to admit those earnest people had been right. Defying all of his expectations, his life did feel "normal" now. Like "normal" people, he got up in the morning, went to work, did his job, and came home to his wife at night. It wasn't the same as before, of course, but it was close enough.

Christie was the one he had to thank for that. She had pitied him, at first – Jim was sure of it – but she rarely let it show. Instead, she adopted a matter-of-fact attitude, focusing on the everyday practicalities of living with blindness. He still didn't know how she'd done it. He felt like a caged bear back then, his blindness an invisible cage from which there was no escape. How could he escape from something he couldn't see, when not seeing was the cage? Christie had borne the brunt of it – his anger, his depression, his insistence on doing it all by himself. When he occasionally broke out of his self-absorption, his only feelings toward his wife were an uneasy mixture of gratitude and resentment. Not resentment of her, but of his need for her.

Before he was shot, Christie had told him their marriage was over. She couldn't stay married to a man who had betrayed her, whom she could never trust again. After he was shot, he assumed that was still true, and she was staying with him out of pity or obligation or fear of what people would think of her if she abandoned her newly-blind husband. He was sure she was only waiting for the right time to leave. He had assumed that their sex life was over, too – not because of his blindness, but because of his infidelity. He was wrong. He smiled, remembering the night when she let him know – unmistakably – she intended to be his wife again, not merely a temporary caretaker. He still didn't fully understand her reasons for giving their marriage – and him – a second chance. Maybe she, like Dr. Galloway a year later, saw in his blindness the opportunity for a fresh start.

The train screeched to a halt, interrupting Jim's reverie. Was this his station? He hadn't been paying attention and had missed the announcement. Shit. He turned to the person he could sense sitting next to him and asked. When his fellow passenger confirmed they were at his stop, he hurriedly stood and ordered Hank forward and off the train.

Walking into the squad room, Jim's feeling of normality returned as he exchanged "good mornings" with his fellow detectives. He had been fortunate to be assigned to a squad where his boss and co-workers were willing to give him a chance to earn his place, and acknowledge it when he did. But Jim didn't kid himself. He knew Marty – and Tom, too, maybe even Lieutenant Fisk – still weren't entirely convinced a blind man should be a detective, even if he could clear cases. He suspected the rest of the NYPD shared that opinion. To them, he was a "token," not a detective who could carry his own weight on the job. It didn't matter how "normal" he felt. The job could never be the same as before. As the Chief of Detectives had so helpfully – but unnecessarily – reminded him, he couldn't do the things he used to do. But after two years, he knew he could still do the job, and that was enough. It had to be.

The squad spent the morning doing follow-up on a stabbing Tom had caught a couple of days before. The suspect had admitted doing the stabbing, but claimed self-defense. The detectives weren't buying it – not with eleven stab wounds on the unarmed DOA. Still, they had to make sure a jury wouldn't buy it, if the case ever got that far. So they were spending the morning re-interviewing witnesses and making sure their statements were on record, in case they tried to change their stories later.

Jim was about to take Hank out for his mid-morning walk when Fisk came out of his office. "Who's up?" the lieutenant asked.

"I am," Jim replied.

"We got a DOA – or maybe part of one," Fisk said. "Dumpster behind a restaurant on Mott Street." He consulted the slip of paper in his hand, before handing it to Karen. "The Canton Inn." The detectives grabbed their coats and headed out of the squad room.

The uniformed officer at the perimeter lifted the crime scene tape to allow Tom and Marty to pass, followed by Karen and Jim. Al Mangini, the patrol supervisor, was standing next to a dumpster about halfway down the alley.

"What've we got?" Karen asked him.

"White female – well, most of her, anyway – nude, wrapped in a black garbage bag and tossed in the dumpster," Mangini replied. "The head and hands aren't with the rest of the body."

"Are they in the dumpster?" Jim asked.

"Don't know. We're waiting for the ME and crime scene to get here before moving her."

"Anything to indicate what killed her?"

"No obvious injuries," Mangini replied, "but like I said, we haven't moved her, just took a quick look at her where she was found."

"Who found her?" Karen asked.

"The restaurant owner – a Henry Wu – he's over there," Mangini said, indicating. "He's pretty shook up – lost his breakfast when he found her."

"We'll talk to him," Karen said.

"We'll start a canvass," Marty offered.

Jim nodded. "Good. We'll talk to the other people from the restaurant, after we talk to the owner." He took Karen's arm, and they walked toward the restaurant's rear door, where Wu was waiting.

It was early afternoon before Jim and Karen finished their work at the scene and returned to the squad. Tom and Marty had already completed their canvass of the area. Fisk emerged from his office and sat on the vacant desk opposite Jim's to hear the detectives' reports.

"What've we got?" he asked.

"White female, nude, wrapped in a garbage bag and dumped in a dumpster," Jim replied. "Her head and hands are missing."

"They're not in the dumpster?" Fisk asked.

Jim shook his head, "Doesn't look like it. Crime scene was still sifting through the dumpster when we left – "

Marty interrupted him. "That's the part of the job they don't show on TV," he quipped.

Jim smiled quickly before continuing, " – but they hadn't found them yet – or anything else to ID her."

Karen spoke up. "The ME did a preliminary exam at the scene. No obvious injuries or cause of death. He thinks the decapitation and amputations probably were done after she was dead. She doesn't have any scars or tattoos that would help ID her. But he did find some old needle tracks on her arms, so it looks like she used at one time, but not recently."

Fisk frowned. "Do we have any idea when she was dumped there?"

"The restaurant owner found her this morning," Jim replied. "He was taking out some trash and noticed the lid was propped open. He said he didn't leave it like that the night before, so he looked in and saw the bag lying on top of the garbage. It didn't look right, so he opened up the bag."

"Crime scene is pretty sure she was killed somewhere else and dumped where she was found," Karen added.

Fisk turned to Marty and Tom. "Did you get anything on the canvass?"

Marty shook his head. "No. No one saw or heard anything. But if she was dumped there late last night or early this morning, the alley in back of the restaurant would've been pretty deserted."

Tom added, "We're thinking she might be a hooker who hooked up with the wrong 'john.' We asked Vice and Narcotics to let us know if they hear anything on the street about a girl being missing."

Fisk frowned. "What about Missing Persons?"

"We contacted them, too," Marty said, "but if she's a street hooker, what're the chances of someone reporting her missing?"

"Yeah," Fisk agreed resignedly. "Keep me posted." He stood up and started back to his office.

"You know, boss," Jim spoke up, "someone went to a lot of trouble to keep us from ID'ing this girl. But if it was a 'john' who did this, why would he care if we ID'd her?"

"So what's your theory?" Marty asked.

"I don't have one," Jim admitted, "I just don't think we should rule anything out yet."

"OK," Fisk said as he entered his office.

A few minutes after Fisk returned to his office, a sharp-featured man of about fifty strode into the squad room. His thick gray hair was carefully styled, and he wore a well-tailored black suit. He was only of medium height, but he carried himself with authority. He scanned the squad room with his eyes, stopping when he saw Jim. He stared openly at Jim for a few moments, before announcing, "Captain Greene, for Lieutenant Fisk."

"In his office," Marty responded, indicating its location. Greene crossed to Fisk's office and entered.

"Hey, Jim, what've you done now?" Marty asked, after the door closed behind Greene.

"What do you mean?"

"That Captain Greene – he was giving you a real hard look," Marty explained.

"Oh, yeah?"

"So what'd you do to piss him off?"

"I have no idea," Jim told him. "I never saw the guy before in my life."

"Very funny," Marty scoffed. "Since when are you the comedian around here?"

"Someone's gotta do it," Jim retorted, throwing up his hands. He picked up his earpiece and went back to his report. The other three detectives pretended to work, while sneaking glances at Fisk's office in a vain attempt to deduce what was going on behind the closed door.

A few minutes later, Fisk opened the office door partway and stuck his head out. "Jim, my office, please." As Tom and Marty exchanged surprised looks at the worried expression on the lieutenant's face, Jim put on his dark glasses, then made his way to Fisk's office, entered, and closed the door behind him.

"Jim," Fisk began, "this is Captain Kevin Greene, from Chief Tunney's staff."

"Captain," Jim acknowledged, extending his hand.

Greene shook Jim's hand. "Detective Dunbar." Jim turned slightly to face him. "As I've just informed Lieutenant Fisk," Greene continued, "you are being re-assigned, effective immediately. You are ordered to report to the 40th Precinct, Lieutenant Phil Krause, tomorrow morning at 8 a.m."

"Yes, sir," Jim replied stiffly.

"That's all," Greene said. "Good luck in your new assignment, Detective." He gave a curt nod in Fisk's direction. "Lieutenant." Without another word, he turned and left.

Fisk looked at Jim thoughtfully. He had noticed the way Jim stiffened at the mention of his new boss's name. Now he was gripping the back of the chair in front of him so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Fisk wasn't sure what was going on, but he was certain of one thing: this was no ordinary transfer.

"Phil Krause – do you know him?" he asked.

"Yeah," Jim replied grimly, "I know him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Meet the New Boss**

_Chapter 2 _

Detective third grade Jim Dunbar didn't bother to hide the swagger in his step as he walked into the squad room at the 32nd Precinct, returning from Central Booking. Two weeks into his first assignment as a detective, he'd made his first major collar – a gangbanger who had repeatedly stabbed his rival for leadership in the gang and left him for dead. The lieutenant stepped out of his office. "Good work, Dunbar," he said.

"Thanks, boss."

As Jim crossed the squad room to his desk, his fellow detectives were strangely quiet. The squad's senior detective, Phil Krause, a burly, balding man in his forties whose habitual irritated look did little to mask his barely-controlled hostility, glowered at him. Jim wondered why they didn't congratulate him on the collar, but when no one said anything, he sat down at his desk and got to work on his report.

A half hour later, Jim looked up from his work and noticed a tall, slender woman with sleek dark hair walking out of the squad room. He watched her, admiring the way she filled out her uniform, until she disappeared around the corner at the end of the hall. From the desk across from him, Detective Bob Franks gave Jim an amused look. "Nice ass, huh?" Jim asked, not at all embarrassed to have been caught looking.

Franks shook his head. "You're wasting your time, buddy," he told Jim, then, seeing Jim's puzzled look, he added, "She's – uh, you know – " He tilted his hand from side to side.

"You're shittin' me," Jim replied in disbelief.

"Nope," Franks assured him.

Jim shook his head. "What a fuckin' waste," he observed as he went back to writing his report.

His report completed, Jim headed to the locker room at the end of the tour. Krause followed and cornered him at the end of the row of lockers. "You think you're a smart guy, is that it, Dunbar?"

Jim folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. He looked at Krause coolly but said nothing.

"Here's how it is, kid," Krause continued. "You're not here to think, you're here to do the legwork. I'm the one who does the thinking in this squad. You get any more bright ideas, hotshot, you bring them to me. You got that?"

Jim met Krause's gaze. "I hear you," he said.

"Good, because I'm not gonna tell you twice. And don't waste your time running to the lieutenant. He's just marking time until he retires. I clear cases and make him look good. Who d'you think he's gonna back – me or you? If I tell him you can't cut it, you'll be back on the streets in uniform the next day. So forget about the lieutenant. It's _my_ squad. As long as you're here, you're mine. You do what _I _tell you. Understood?"

"I said I heard you."

Krause turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at Jim. "Oh, one other thing – _I_ make the collars. You want to last around here, you remember that."

Jim glared at Krause as he walked out of the locker room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Jim had been at the 3-2 for two months when the squad caught an especially nasty case – a prostitute who had been viciously beaten and slashed. Her doctor told them she'd sustained severe brain damage; it was unlikely she'd ever be able to remember the attack, much less identify her assailant. Their investigation was going nowhere until Charles Harris walked into the station house and announced he was turning himself in for the "hooker attack."

Krause and his partner Greg Jennings took the interview. Jim watched part of the questioning from the observation room, then returned to his desk, looking troubled. A half hour later, Krause and Jennings emerged from the interview room. "We got his statement," Krause announced, dropping a legal pad on his desk.

"Good," the lieutenant grunted, then returned to his office.

Jennings spoke up. "I'll get him to Central Booking."

"Yeah," Krause replied as he sat down at his desk.

"You know, Phil," Jim began, "I've been thinkin' – "

"You've been doing what?" Krause demanded.

Jim ignored him. "Don't you think it was a little too convenient, him just walking in the front door like that?" he asked.

Krause frowned. "No," he said firmly.

"Well, I do," Jim asserted. "I was watching, and it looked to me like he was covering for someone."

"Like who?" Krause asked scornfully.

"What about his son?" Jim suggested.

"You're kidding, right? The kid's a scholarship student at NYU. Dad in there – " Krause pointed at the interview room. " – is a gangbanger from way back."

"I know," Jim admitted, "but that was twenty years ago. He's been clean since then."

"Doesn't matter," Krause declared, "once a gangbanger, always a gangbanger."

"I dunno," Jim observed, "there aren't a lot of fifty-year-old gangbangers."

"So what? Most of 'em are dead or in prison by then," Krause pointed out.

"But what's the motive?" Jim persisted.

Krause shrugged off the question. "Not important." He snorted derisively. "Maybe he couldn't get it up and took it out on the girl. That would explain the injuries."

"Could be," Jim conceded, then added, "I did a little checking anyway."

"Oh, yeah?"

"It turns out the son isn't squeaky clean, after all. He's out on bail from a recent collar for drug possession with intent to sell, and NYU says he dropped out three months ago."

"That doesn't mean he's good for the assault."

"Maybe not," Jim said, "but I checked with the plastics factory over in Long Island City where Harris works. They say he worked a swing shift the day before yesterday. There are at least ten guys who'll say he was there at the time of the assault. He can't be our guy."

Krause glared at Jim, then turned to Jennings. "Cut him loose," he snarled.

* * *

A week later, at 6 a.m., Jim and the rest of the squad were crouched in the reeking stairwell of a tenement on West 138th Street which, according to Krause's CI, was the current residence of one Demetrius Jefferson, who was selling crack cocaine out of his apartment. Krause nodded to Jim. "Go," he whispered.

Without acknowledging Krause, Jim started up the stairs to the third floor, where Jefferson's apartment was located. Krause, Jennings, and Frank followed. When there was no response to their pounding on the door or their shouted orders to open it, they broke down the door and entered the apartment. They found Jefferson, still groggy from sleep or drugs or both, in the bedroom. Jennings cuffed him and led him from the apartment, followed by Franks and Jim. Krause remained behind in the apartment.

Halfway down the stairs, Jim stopped abruptly. "I should go back," he said, "and help Phil secure the scene." He started back up the stairs.

"Jim, don't – " Jennings began, but Jim was already gone.

Jim stopped in the apartment doorway, which opened directly into the living room. Krause was at the opposite end of the room, his back to him. Jim opened his mouth to speak, then shut it when he realized what Krause was doing. As Jim watched, Krause pulled two plastic bags from the inside pocket of his NYPD jacket and placed them under the cushions of the sofa in front of him. The bags were full of irregularly shaped, off-white lumps, which Jim recognized as "rocks" of crack cocaine. When Krause straightened up and began to turn around, Jim took a step into the apartment and spoke up, as if he'd just arrived. "Hey, Phil, you need some help securing the scene?"

Krause turned around quickly and glared at Jim. "You didn't see that," he snapped.

"Didn't see what?" Jim asked, assuming what he hoped was a clueless expression.

Krause studied Jim for a moment, then said, "I don't need any help from _you_. Get lost."

Jim turned away from the apartment and walked slowly down the stairs, considering what he had just seen. When he became a cop, he'd quickly learned police work was not always black-and-white. More often than not, the perps were not evil monsters. Mostly, their violence was mindless and inexplicable, often fueled by drugs or alcohol or both. Some of them were just plain stupid or even pathetic. But all of them knew the overriding truth of their lives. In the eyes of the larger society, outside the gang culture which validated them, they were nothing. They were the disposable people. Not that he had much sympathy for them. He knew what it was like to grow up in a rough neighborhood, with an alcoholic father who was either absent or interested only in his next drink. Several of his childhood friends were now long-term guests of the State of New York, their lives effectively over. The odds had been against him, too, but he had overcome them. Jim knew he was exceptional, but that didn't stop him from judging, sometimes harshly, those who lacked his brains and determination.

If a perp needed to be put away, Jim would do what was necessary. He had learned how to operate in the gray areas the courts sanctioned or turned a blind eye to. He had no compunction about slanting or even embellishing the facts, if that was what it took to put away a perp. And since becoming a detective, he relished coming up with new ways to trick a suspect into giving up himself or an accomplice. But he never forgot there were lines he couldn't – and wouldn't – cross. He wasn't about to jeopardize a case or his career. What he'd just seen shattered those lines. He wasn't sure what to do about it.

For the next two weeks, Jim mulled over his options while he kept his head down and stayed out of Krause's way as much as possible. Krause's clearance rate told him this wasn't the first time Krause had pulled something like this. But he couldn't afford to get sideways with Krause, any more than he already was – not if he valued his career. He was still trying to come up with a plan when a spot opened up for a detective on the night shift. He immediately took it, telling the lieutenant he could use the extra money from the shift differential. Two long years of night shifts later, he found a way out of the 3-2, when he was promoted to Detective second grade. He seized the opportunity to transfer to the 3-4 to work Anti-Crime, relieved to be done – finally – with the 3-2 and Phil Krause.


	3. Chapter 3

**Meet the New Boss**

_Chapter 3_

Fisk gave Jim a worried look. "Are you OK?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Jim replied, "just a little – surprised, I guess."

Fisk sat down. "Have a seat."

"Thanks, boss."

"I want you to know, Jim," Fisk began when Jim was seated opposite him, "I had nothing to do with this. I'm as shocked as you are."

"Thanks." Jim took off his dark glasses and set them on the desk. "Did Captain Greene give you a reason?"

"Not really," Fisk told him, "just something vague about the 4-0 needing 'more manpower'." Jim nodded resignedly. "Do you have any idea what's going on?" Fisk asked.

"No," Jim replied, frowning.

"How do you know Lieutenant Krause?" Fisk asked.

"We – worked together, at the 3-2, when I was first promoted to detective."

"And you butted heads?"

"Something like that," Jim agreed, with a pained expression.

"But that was a long time ago, right?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe I should call him," Fisk suggested, "let him know what a good job you've done here."

"Thanks, boss, but I don't think that's a good idea. It won't do any good anyway."

"OK. If you say so. But there's more to this than they're telling us."

"I know," Jim agreed.

"I have my sources at One PP," Fisk told him. "I'll see what I can find out."

"Thanks." Jim turned away from Fisk and bowed his head.

Fisk stood up and walked past Jim to the door. He opened it and called Karen, Tom, and Marty into his office. When he told them about Jim's transfer, Karen and Tom stared at him in shocked silence, while Marty demanded, "You're kidding, right?"

"Sorry, no," Fisk confirmed.

"Unbelievable," Marty muttered, more to himself than to Fisk.

Fisk dismissed the squad. "That's all."

The four detectives returned to their desks in silence, still looking stunned. Karen fell into her chair, then turned away from her fellow detectives and stared despondently out the window. Jim ran his hands distractedly over his desktop, as if trying to commit its contents to memory. Marty and Tom exchanged looks of disbelief. Finally Marty broke the silence, "What the fuck is going on?" he demanded.

Jim raised his head, startled. "Beats me," he said with a shrug.

"Well, something sure as hell is," Tom observed.

Karen swiveled around in her chair. "C'mon, Jim, you must know something."

"Not really," Jim told her. "All I know is, I worked with Phil Krause when we were both at the 3-2. He's had it in for me ever since." He rubbed his right eye. "He's no Gary Fisk. The guy's bad news."

"Someone's trying to get you off the job," Marty asserted.

"Probably," Jim agreed.

"You think it's Krause?" Tom asked.

Jim shrugged. "Could be. But I'm guessing someone knows about the bad blood between us and got him to do their dirty work." He grimaced. "That wouldn't be too hard. I'm sure he'd be happy to do it."

"But who? Someone at One PP?" Karen asked.

"Probably," Jim agreed. "I pissed off a lot of people there – "

"Yeah, you're good at that," Marty quipped.

Jim ignored him. " – when I was trying to get reinstated. But why now? I've been back on the job two years, for crissake. It doesn't make sense."

"You're right," Marty agreed. "All I know is, something's not right." He thought for a moment, then asked, "Hey, Jim, you know what really worries me about this?"

"No, what's that?"

"What if they find someone worse to replace you?"

Karen gave a disgusted sigh and rolled her eyes, but Jim just grinned and said, "I sure am gonna miss you, Marty."

* * *

Karen looked on sadly as Jim packed up his belongings at the end of the day. She didn't offer to help him. He didn't need her help. Besides, if she helped, that would only hasten his departure. Marty caught her eye and gave her a sympathetic look, but said nothing.

The last item Jim packed was the picture of Christie which had occupied the corner of his desk for the past year. After it had been there for about two months, Karen's curiosity got the better of her, and she asked him why he had a picture of his wife on his desk. She immediately told herself she was an idiot for asking, but Jim simply smiled and told her he liked knowing the picture was there. The picture's metal frame had an inscription in Braille. Jim never told her what it said, and she didn't ask. But once or twice she had caught him in a rare unguarded moment, running his fingertips over the raised dots.

His messenger bag packed, Jim put on his dark glasses and stood up, slapping his thigh to signal Hank.

"I'll drop you at home," Karen told him, "you've got a lot to carry."

"OK," Jim agreed. "Thanks." After a final round of handshakes and good-byes, he and Hank followed Karen out of the squad room for the last time.

They rode most of the way to Brooklyn in silence, neither of them knowing what to say. Jim hated to admit it, but the squad – especially Karen – had become a necessary part of his support system. He knew he wouldn't get that kind of support in a squad run by Phil Krause. But he would manage, one way or another. He always did.

When the car came to a stop in front of Jim's apartment building, they both spoke at the same time.

"Jim, I – "

"Karen, I – "

They both laughed a little nervously, then Jim said, "You first."

An uncomfortable silence descended on them. Finally Karen spoke. "Oh, man," she said, "I can't do this. . . ." She hesitated, then continued, "I can't believe I was such a bitch, back when we first started. . .you didn't deserve that, not even on account of. . . ." She didn't finish the thought. She didn't have to. "You told me you'd make a good partner, and you did – the best." She paused, then added, with a smile, "Except when you were a royal pain in the ass."

Jim smiled, too, then added, "Which was most of the time."

After another nervous laugh, Karen went on, "Seriously, Jim, I've been damn lucky to be partnered up with you."

Jim turned away to hide his embarrassment. When he turned back to face her, he told her, "You didn't get lucky – I did. You gave me a chance. I want to thank you for that, and for, you know, for – everything," he concluded awkwardly. He reached out and touched her hand briefly, then added, "I should get going."

"OK. You need a hand with your stuff?"

"No, thanks, I got it." He picked up his bag and got out of the car, then opened the rear door for Hank.

Before he could walk away, Karen called out to him, "Jim!"

"Yeah?"

"Good luck – and if you ever need someone to watch your back, you know where to find me."

He nodded gravely. "Thanks," he said, then turned to go. Karen watched him until he disappeared inside the building before she drove away. At the first stoplight, waiting for the light to change, she thought about what Jim was facing, and she felt a sudden stab of fear. Better than anyone else in the squad, she knew his vulnerabilities. If what he had told her about Krause was correct – and she was certain it was – Krause would quickly find a way to exploit those vulnerabilities. But, she reminded herself, Jim had dealt with plenty of tough situations before. Surely he could handle this one, too.

The light turned to green, and she continued on her way, thinking back on her two-year partnership with Jim. What she'd told him was true: she _was_ lucky to have been his partner. She'd learned a lot from him – not only about police work.

* * *

Christie knew something was wrong as soon as she walked in the front door and heard the jingling. It was the bell inside the ball Jim used to bounce against the wall, sometimes for hours, when he retreated into himself and shut out everything and everyone, even her. Then she noticed the picture of herself on the desk – the picture which should have been on Jim's desk at the squad. Her heart sank.

"Jimmy?" she called softly as she walked toward him. "Is something wrong?"

He turned to face her, looking startled, as if he hadn't heard her come in. "I've been transferred," he said bleakly.

"Transferred?" she asked, puzzled. "Transferred where?"

"The 4-0. Lieutenant Phil Krause."

"Phil Krause? Who's that?"

"I worked with him right after I was promoted to detective. It was before I met you."

"What's the problem?" she asked. When Jim didn't answer her, she prodded gently, "There _is_ a problem, isn't there?"

"Yeah," Jim admitted. Christie took both of his hands in hers and pulled him to his feet, then led him to the couch. After they sat down, he rested his chin on his hands, trying to decide how much to tell her.

"You want to tell me about it?" she asked, after a moment.

Frowning, he turned to face her. "Phil Krause is dirty," he told her. "I know he's dirty, and he knows I know. He was working at the 3-2 when I was assigned there. I'd been there a couple of months when I walked in on him planting drugs on a suspect." He shook his head grimly. "I'm not proud of what did. I pretended I hadn't seen anything. Then I transferred to the night shift the first chance I got."

"Oh, Jimmy – " Christie began, but he didn't seem to hear her.

"I told myself I'd worked too hard to become a detective to blow it by being a snitch for IAB. I thought I could do more good staying on the job and putting away the bad guys." He gave a humorless laugh. "Besides, if I blew the whistle on Krause, he probably would've claimed I was the one who planted the drugs. It would've been my word against his. Who d'you think they would've believed?"

"God, Jimmy, I had no idea," Christie said, "I mean, I've heard about stuff like that happening, but – "

"He's had it in for me ever since. And now he's my new boss. You know what that means, don't you?"

"Someone wants you off the job?"

"Yeah."

"What can you do about it?"

"I don't know," Jim admitted, "but I'm not gonna make it easy for them."

Christie murmured, "I'm sure of that," as she put her arms around Jim and held him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Meet the New Boss**

_Chapter 4_

The silence that descended when Jim walked into the squad room at the 40th Precinct in the South Bronx told him his arrival had been noticed. He wasn't sure if the silence was hostile or curious. Probably some of both, he decided. "Jim Dunbar, for Lieutenant Krause," he announced.

For a moment, no one responded. Then a voice came from behind him. "Dunbar." The speaker didn't identify himself – he wouldn't, of course – but Jim recognized the voice. He turned toward him. "Lieutenant."

The detectives in the squad introduced themselves. "John Morris." "Frank Coletti." "Gary Nichols." "Dave Bartkowski." Jim acknowledged each of them with a nod. "Got an empty desk?" he asked.

"Yeah, over here," Krause growled.

"Can you be a little more specific?" Jim asked.

No one answered him for a moment, then one of the detectives – Bartkowski, Jim thought – said, "About ten feet ahead, on your right."

Jim ordered Hank forward. He trailed his hand across the edge of the adjoining desk until he found the vacant one. He set his bag down on the desk, located the chair, and sat down. There was a stirring as the four other detectives sat back down at their desks and apparently went back to work. He explored the desktop. It was mostly empty, except for a phone, a useless lamp, "in" and "out" boxes, and some supplies. He took his scanner and computer out of his bag, placed them on the desk, and started to set them up. No one said anything to him, but Jim was certain the other detectives were watching. He was mildly surprised that no one offered to help. Not because he needed any help – he didn't. But he had become so accustomed to fending off unwanted and unneeded offers of help that their absence seemed out of the ordinary. He reminded himself the usual "rules" didn't apply here – not in Phil Krause's squad.

He had almost finished setting up the computer and scanner when he realized he couldn't avoid asking for help with one part of the task. "Hey, guys," he asked, "where are the outlets?"

For a moment, the only answer to his question was silence. Then one of the detectives – Bartkowski again, Jim thought – said, "They're on the floor, under the desk. Here, let me show you."

"Thanks."

After Jim confirmed that his scanner and computer were up and running, he turned toward the other detectives' desks and asked, "What're you working?"

Another moment of silence followed, in which Jim imagined the other four detectives were looking at each other, deciding whether to answer him. Finally one of them – Jim guessed Colletti this time – said, "The usual – a coupla drive-bys, a stabbing that looks like a jealous boyfriend. The boss will get you up to speed."

"OK." Jim leaned back in his chair. The chilly reception wasn't unexpected – Krause would have made sure of that – but one thing was puzzling. Greene had told Fisk he was being transferred because Krause needed more 'manpower,' but there was already a full squad of four detectives here. He'd suspected that was just a pretext, but it was reassuring, somehow, to have his suspicions confirmed.

Krause emerged from his office. "We got a DOA," he said. "139th and Brook."

Jim and the other detectives stood up and put on their coats. Jim grasped Hank's harness and started walking forward, but Krause stopped him. "Where d'you think you're going, Dunbar?"

Jim stopped and turned toward him, a questioning expression on his face. "On the call, Lieutenant."

"Forget it. You're not going out in the field, not here. You're staying in the squad and covering the phones."

"But, lieutenant – " Jim began.

"Zip it. You're not in the East Village anymore." Krause looked at the four other detectives, who had stopped on their way out to listen. "What're you waiting for? Get out," he ordered them.

After the squad disappeared down the hall, Krause turned back to Jim. "My office, Dunbar, now," he snapped.

Jim took off his coat, unfolded his cane, and followed Krause to his office.

"Let's get a few things straight," Krause began. "You're not at the 8 anymore, and I'm not Gary Fisk." That, at least, was true, Jim thought. "No more special treatment," Krause continued, "we're not carrying you like your old squad did."

"No one carried me, Lieutenant," Jim replied evenly. "You don't have to take my word for it, ask Lieutenant Fisk."

"Maybe I will, maybe I will," Krause mused, then added, "And we don't have a pretty female detective to lead you around. Sorry about that."

"I noticed," Jim said dryly.

"As long as you're here, you can forget about going out in the field."

"I've been going out in the field for two years – " Jim began.

"Not here you haven't."

"But Chief Tunney – "

"I don't care what the chief says. He's not running this squad, I am. I'm not putting an unarmed blind detective on the street in this precinct. Like I said, you're not in the East Village anymore. Do you even know where you are?"

"Yes, I know where I am."

Krause studied Jim for a moment. "There's one good thing, anyway – "

"What's that, lieutenant?"

"I don't have to worry about you seeing something you're not supposed to."

"No, you don't," Jim agreed, through clenched teeth. "Is that all, _sir_?"

"Yeah. Get out."

Struggling to contain his anger, Jim left Krause's office and found the locker room. There was no way in hell he was going to let Krause see that he'd gotten to him. He drummed his fingers on one of the lockers, trying to stay in control. He started to fold his cane, tempted to slam it against the locker door. Suddenly the cane reminded him there was something he needed to do. The sooner he could move around freely in the squad room, the better. The squad room was as empty now as it was ever going to be. Jim's stomach turned at the thought of learning his way around the squad with Krause watching him, but he had no choice. He unfolded his cane and walked out of the locker room to begin the laborious process of memorizing the squad room.

As Jim methodically stepped out the route from his desk to the hall, Krause looked up from the report he was reviewing. He watched Jim for a few minutes, curious. Then, when Jim folded his cane and began retracing his steps without it, he understood what Jim was doing. He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. He wouldn't wish being blinded like that on anyone, not even Dunbar, he told himself. But that arrogant bastard needed to be taken down a peg or two. It was about time he learned some humility.

When the other detectives returned from the scene, Krause stepped out of his office. "My office," he ordered them. When Jim began to stand up, he added, "Not you, Dunbar."

Jim sat back down. He heard Krause's heavy footsteps approaching, followed by the slap of a stack of files landing on his desk. Automatically, he reached out to touch them. "What's this?" he asked.

"Your new assignment. Some open cases – you know, the kind that's been open for a while. I figured they were just waiting for a hotshot detective like you to clear them." Krause turned and walked away. Jim clenched his jaw. He'd just been handed a stack of old, cold cases. Krause knew as well as he did there was virtually no chance of solving them. He was being set up to fail. Doggedly, he reached for the top file in the stack. He wasn't about to give Krause an excuse to fire him for insubordination. That would make it too easy for him.

Jim listened carefully to the reports on the first case until the rest of the squad came out of Krause's office and returned to their desks. "What've we got?" he asked.

Nichols hesitated before answering him. "Looks like a drug deal gone bad," he finally said. "DOA's a crack dealer, name of Leon Parker, two GSWs to the chest. Word on the street is the shooter was a Curtis Young. Apparently Curtis thought Leon had sold him some bunk, and this was his way of getting his money back. Curtis is in the wind, but we'll find him. It's just a matter of time."

"Anything I can do?" Jim asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, thanks, we got it."

The end of the tour finally arrived. After Jim heard Krause leave without saying good night to anyone, he headed for his locker. While he was standing there, he heard the locker room door open. "Hello?" Jim asked.

Bartkowski walked in and looked anxiously around the room. When he was sure no one else was present, he said, "Hey, Jim. It's Dave – Dave Bartkowski."

Jim turned toward him. "I know," he said with a little smile, hoping to put Bartkowski at ease.

"Listen, Jim," Bartkowski began, his voice low and anxious, "I know it must look like – uh, I mean, seem like – we're a bunch of pricks here, but we're not, not really."

Jim cocked his head questioningly.

"Yesterday, when the boss told us you were being assigned here, he said the brass had decided you were a liability, and our job was to make the case so they could get you off the job. I guess maybe you already knew this, huh?"

Jim nodded but said nothing.

"Anyway, the boss told us you weren't going to be working any current cases, and we're not supposed to talk to you about them. Hell, we're not supposed to talk to you at all, if we can avoid it. And the boss ordered us not to help you with anything we don't have to. He even brought in a lawyer from the department to talk to us about 'reasonable accommodation.' After the lawyer left, the boss told us your old boss had 'coddled' you, and that wasn't gonna happen in his squad."

Bartkowski fell silent and looked around the room again. When he was certain no one was nearby, he continued, "So I'm tellin' you, you better watch your back – they want you gone."

Pressing his lips together, Jim nodded again, then asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

Bartkowski thought for a moment, frowning. "Look, I don't know about you being on the job. I mean, it don't seem like such a great idea, you being – you know, blind, and all. But I was willing to keep an open mind. I mean, you've been back on the job for – what, two years?"

"Yes," Jim confirmed.

"And I remember what you did at that bank robbery. Maybe you can't do the job, maybe you can, I don't know. But I don't like to see the brass fucking with _any_ cop. So, like I said, you need to watch your back."

"I will. Thanks."

"One other thing," Bartkowski told him, "Krause has a snitch – "

Jim heard the locker room door open. "What's that?" he asked.

Bartkowski didn't answer. Instead, he abruptly said, "Good night," and walked away.

"Yeah," Jim replied, "Good night." He closed the locker door and leaned against it, thinking.


	5. Chapter 5

**Meet the New Boss**

_Chapter 5_

Karen hung up the phone. Automatically, she turned to her right and started to speak. Then she saw Jim's empty desk and remembered his sudden transfer, two days before. Shit. It was bad enough that Jim was gone. But his departure also meant she was without a partner again, just as she'd been before he showed up at the 8. She did _not_ want to go back to tagging along with Marty and Tom. But she couldn't face breaking in a new partner, either. She noticed Marty looking at her thoughtfully, and her face reddened in embarrassment.

"Not the same, is it, kid?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "Don't tell me you miss him, too," she said.

"Sure I do," Marty told her. "Who am I gonna razz now?"

"Oh, I don't know – me?"

"Nah, I wouldn't kick you when you're down."

Fisk hung up his phone and emerged from his office. "That was the chief's office," he said, sitting on the desk opposite Jim's vacant desk. "They're sending us a new detective." He consulted the slip of paper in his hand. " – a Nate Campbell. Marty, you ride with him."

"But, boss – " Marty protested.

"I don't want to hear it," Fisk cut him off. "This is his first assignment since being promoted to detective. You're the senior detective here, I need you to show him the ropes."

Marty groaned. "He's just been promoted? And they're assigning him to a homicide squad? Jeez."

Fisk gave him a resigned look. "You got a beef, take it up with Chief Tunney. And don't take it out on Campbell," he ordered, "it's not his fault." He went back to his office, closing the door behind him.

A half hour later, a stocky, round-faced man with thinning sandy hair came into the squad room and asked for Fisk. Tom directed him to Fisk's office. Noticing his new-looking dark gray suit and guessing he was the new member of the squad, Karen studied him as he walked across the room. He looked about thirty, young for a detective, but he moved as if he could handle himself. A few minutes later, he and Fisk came out of the office. The lieutenant introduced the newcomer. "Nate Campbell, Karen Bettancourt, Marty Russo, Tom Selway," he said, indicating each of them in turn.

After Fisk returned to his office, Campbell stood next to the door, looking around. "Is there an empty desk?" he asked.

"These two," Marty replied, indicating Jim's desk and the one opposite it. Campbell headed toward Jim's desk, but Karen stopped him.

"No, not that one," she said sharply. "Take that one," she ordered him, indicating the desk opposite Jim's.

"What?" Marty asked with a sardonic grin. "You planning to build a shrine to Dunbar there?" He nodded toward Jim's desk.

"No, 'course not," Karen muttered, embarrassed. She turned to Campbell. "Take either one, it doesn't matter."

Confused, Campbell retreated to the desk opposite Jim's and sat down. Karen glared at Marty for a moment, then stood up and stalked out of the squad room. Tom watched her go, then told Marty, keeping his voice low, "You better do something, man." Marty stood up and followed Karen.

He found her in the locker room, staring out the window. "Listen, Karen, I'm sorry," he began, "it was a joke."

She turned around and gave him a reproachful look. "Well, it wasn't funny," she said coldly. "This whole situation stinks."

"Yeah, it does."

"If you ask me, it's a set-up," she continued. "They knew they couldn't get rid of Jim as long as he was here, clearing cases, so they pulled him out of here."

"I know."

"You know what really pisses me off?" she asked.

"What's that?"

"Jim would never let on in front of you guys – I mean, he always tried to make it look easy – but it was really hard for him, you know, doing his job. He never said anything, but I could tell sometimes, watching him. It really pisses me off to see them screwing with him like this, after he worked so hard."

"Yeah," Marty agreed, looking thoughtful. Karen was right. Jim had made it easy for them not to think about what he had to do every day to cope with his blindness. Not that Marty was complaining about it. He changed the subject. "So what d'you want to do about it?" he asked.

"I don't know. What can we do, anyway?"

"Maybe, if we find out who's behind it – "

"Yeah," Karen agreed, "but the only ones we know about are this Captain Greene and Lieutenant Krause."

"How about I check out Greene and you look into Krause?"

"OK," Karen said, looking a little surprised. "You'd do that?" she asked, "I mean, you and Jim – "

"Yeah, I know," Marty interrupted her, "but I don't want to see him get screwed over any more than you do. Besides, look who they sent to replace him. Didn't I say they'd send us someone worse than a blind guy?" He gave her an encouraging grin. "C'mon, let's get to work."

* * *

Krause emerged from his office when Nichols and Bartkowski walked out of the interview room, where they had been questioning Curtis Young's girlfriend, Lavinia Jackson. Nichols threw his legal pad onto his desk in disgust, then told Krause, "She's not backing off her statement that Curtis was with her at the time of the shooting. I know she's lying, but – "

Bartkowski spoke up, "We'll give her an hour or so, then take another crack at her."

Krause nodded. "OK."

Jim decided to speak up. "I've been thinking – about Lavinia, that is – and I've got an idea. . . ."

Krause lit into him. "You deaf, too, Dunbar?" he demanded. "I told you, you are not working this case. We can clear this case without your help."

Without thinking, Jim snapped back, "Yeah, I know how you clear cases."

Krause glared at him, to no effect. "By the way, Dunbar, I ran into your old boss this morning. I've never seen the big guy so happy. When he saw me, he said he was sorry I had to inherit his problem, but two years was long enough for him, it was someone else's turn now." He stared triumphantly at Jim. When Jim didn't respond, Krause announced, "I'm going to lunch. Nichols, Morris, walk with me."

As soon as their footsteps faded, Jim stood up and headed for the locker room. It was all he could do to stay in control. And he was shaken by what Krause had said about Fisk. Had Fisk really been happy to see him go? Fisk never hesitated to let Jim know when he was out of line, but Jim had been certain – until now – that he had earned Fisk's respect and support. He didn't believe – didn't want to believe – Fisk could be that two-faced. Besides, he reminded himself, Krause was an accomplished liar. Surely he was lying now.

When Bartkowski was sure Krause and the two detectives were gone, he followed Jim to the locker room. He found him standing next to the coffemaker, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Jim – " he began. Jim started. "Uh, sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"Not a problem."

"What you said, a minute ago," Bartkowski began tentatively, "about the way the boss clears cases – what did you mean by that?"

"Ancient history. Forget it." Jim waved a hand dismissively.

"OK," Bartkowski said doubtfully. "Listen, we're getting nowhere with Lavinia. I don't care what the boss says, we could use some help in getting her to come off her alibi for Curtis."

Jim thought for a moment, biting his lip. "You know Lavinia's on probation, right?" Bartkowski nodded automatically, forgetting that Jim couldn't see him. "And she has a search condition?"

"Yeah, but we searched her when we brought her in."

"Not her – her apartment," Jim corrected him. "I was thinking, if she's been hanging with Curtis, the odds are pretty good that we'll find drugs in her apartment."

"Probably," Bartkowski agreed.

"If there are drugs in her apartment, it's a probation violation. She violates probation, she stands a good chance of going to prison."

"Yeah, but she's scared of Curtis – he's already knocked her around, I can tell. I'm guessing she's more scared of him than going to prison."

"But she's a mom, right – two little kids?"

"Yeah," Bartkowski said, seeing where Jim was going. "You think she'll choose them over Curtis?"

"Yeah. She goes to prison, the kids end up in foster care. What are her chances of getting them back?"

"That just might work," Bartkowski mused. "Thanks." He turned to walk away.

"No problem." After he heard the door close behind Bartkowski, Jim reached out with his hand to find the wall, then leaned against it, thinking. He knew he could make this work, just as he had at the 8, if given the chance. But he also knew Krause would make sure he didn't get that chance. He had to find a way out of the 4-0. He just didn't know how. In a weak moment, he'd called his lawyer to ask if there was anything he could do, legally. The answer wasn't encouraging. A judge was unlikely to second-guess the Department's decision to transfer him, as long as they didn't take away his "reasonable accommodations" and they lived up to the agreement they'd signed when he was reinstated. And anything his lawyer could do would take time – too much time. Jim sighed and squared his shoulders, then followed Bartkowski back to the squad room. He'd find a way out of this. He had to.


	6. Chapter 6

**Meet the New Boss**

_Chapter 6_

Four days into the investigation of the DOA found in the dumpster, the squad assembled in Fisk's office to bring him up to date. Marty reported first. "The ME says the cause of death can't be determined from the part of the body they have. There's no sign of any injury or medical condition that could have caused her death. She was 35, maybe a few years older – kinda old for a hooker. The decapitation and amputations were definitely done after she was dead, with some kind of saw. It's possible they'll be able to match a saw to the saw marks on the bones – if we ever find the saw, that is."

"Did the ME find anything at all that could ID her?" Fisk asked.

Marty shook his head. "Nope. She had an old, healed broken arm, but that won't help ID her unless we can get X-rays to compare it with – "

Fisk completed the sentence for him, " – and we can't get her X-rays if we don't know who she was."

"Right," Marty agreed.

"Anything else?" Fisk asked.

Campbell answered him this time. "The ME said there was sexual activity shortly before death – probably consensual. He took swabs for DNA, but they haven't found a match to anyone in the DNA database, so far."

"Preliminary tox screen was negative, except for a trace of alcohol," Marty added. "Looks like the track marks on her arms are pretty old."

Karen spoke up. "Vice, Narcotics, and Missing Persons have come up empty. If someone knows she's missing, they haven't reported it."

"What's the plan now?"

"Karen and me are gonna go out tonight, talk to some of the girls on the streets, see if there's anyone they haven't seen around the last few days," Tom replied.

"OK," Fisk said, frowning, and dismissed the squad.

* * *

Jim took off his earpiece and leaned back in his chair. He rotated his neck, which gave a satisfying crack. He listened to the activity around him in the squad room, but he hadn't been paying attention and wasn't sure who else was there. The past three days at the 4-0 had brought a painful and unwanted reminder of the isolation that came with blindness. The camaraderie he'd developed with his fellow detectives at the 8 had enabled him – eventually – to break out of that isolation. But that wasn't likely to happen here – not if Krause had anything to say about it. Here he wasn't only blind – he felt invisible. 

He frowned, thinking about the case he'd just reviewed. Seven-month-old Joey Rodriguez had died as a result of massive bleeding in his brain, six years ago. Jim had never seen little Joey's autopsy photos, but that didn't make any difference – he couldn't get the mental images of the dead infant out of his head. No matter how many homicides he worked, the senseless death of an innocent child always got to him – especially now, when he and Christie were talking about starting a family.

The detectives who investigated the case were certain it was a "non-accidental injury," as their reports put it, but they had been unable to make a case. Joey had seemed perfectly all right until the moment he collapsed in front of his parents and three other family members, and all of them claimed nothing happened that could have caused Joey's injury. The ME could only say Joey had suffered a closed head injury; he was unable to determine when or how it happened. Jim remembered a similar case they'd had at the 8 last year. That case had also baffled the ME until he called in an outside expert, who told them a child with a head injury can sometimes appear to be OK for a day or two, before crashing. Maybe that was what had happened to Joey. If that was the case, they needed to look into the teenaged cousin who'd baby-sat Joey two days before he died. Thinking this was a cold case they might actually be able to clear, Jim steeled himself to talk to Krause.

"Boss in his office?" he asked.

"Yeah," someone answered. Jim didn't bother trying to identify the voice.

He crossed the room to Krause's office and reached for the door handle. Nothing. Guessing the door was open, he knocked on the door frame.

Krause watched Jim in silence, then answered his knock. "Yeah."

"I think I got something on one of the cases – Joey Rodriguez," Jim said,

"What's that?" Krause asked skeptically. He listened as Jim explained his thinking, then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "You want to spend the department's money on some so-called 'expert' just because you have a theory?"

"It isn't just a theory, boss – " Jim began.

Krause cut him off. "Forget it. And if you have any more bright ideas, keep 'em to yourself, you hear me?"

Jim started to ask Krause why he was reviewing cases, if Krause wasn't going to let him investigate them. But he didn't need to ask. He already knew the answer. Without another word, he turned away and went back to his desk.

He sat down and brought a hand up to his mouth, thinking. For the first time, he allowed himself to consider the possibility he wouldn't be able to prevent them – whoever "they" were – from forcing him off the job. The thought sickened him. He couldn't let that happen. He'd worked too hard to get reinstated and to prove he could do the job to go down without a fight. But he needed to know who was trying to force him out. He ran through a mental list of the possibilities, but none of them seemed to fit.

He pushed those thoughts aside and reached for the next file in the stack of cold cases. He opened the file but didn't start feeding its pages into his scanner. Instead, he left it lying open in front of him as he tuned out the sounds of the busy squad room and tapped his fingers distractedly on his desk. After a few minutes, he stopped abruptly. He had an idea. He would talk to Walter Clark. Walter had been around for a long time. He knew a lot of cops. He knew who was dirty and where the bodies were buried. If anyone could help him make sense of what was happening and find a way out, it was Walter.

* * *

Fisk hung up the phone and emerged from his office. "ME just called. We got a possible ID on our DOA." 

"How?" Marty asked.

"A dumpster diver found a hand last night in a dumpster over on Essex. The ME says it's a probable match to the DOA. It was still in pretty good shape, because the weather's been so cold the past couple of days, and the ME was able to get good prints. They came back to a Joyce Matthews."

"I'll run her for priors," Karen said. When the records check was completed, she reported, "She has convictions for prostitution and drug possession – but they're all old. The last one was more than ten years ago."

"I got an address," Campbell volunteered.

"Hit it," Fisk ordered.

"Pretty nice building for a hooker," Marty commented when they arrived at Joyce Matthews' address.

"Maybe she wasn't hooking anymore," Tom pointed out.

"Or she wasn't working the streets," Karen suggested. "Maybe she moved up to a more 'high-class' clientele."

When, as expected, there was no response to their knocks on the door of Joyce's sixth-floor apartment, Marty directed the super to open the door. He gave a low whistle when he looked inside. "Nice place," he commented.

Karen looked over his shoulder. "Yeah," she agreed, "it looks like someone paid a decorator a lot of money."

"Too bad Joyce isn't gonna enjoy it anymore," Tom said. "We better get started."

The detectives spent the next two hours systematically searching the apartment, then canvassed the building.

"Not many neighbors at home this time of day," Tom reported to Fisk when they returned to the squad. "Those that were home said there wasn't a lot of traffic to and from her apartment."

"One neighbor said she saw a man coming and going from the apartment fairly regularly," Karen added. "She said he was an 'older man' and 'well-dressed.' She thought he might be a relative of the DOA."

"Couldn't she give a better description than that?" Fisk asked, sounding frustrated.

"Not really," Karen told him.

"You find anything in the apartment?"

Karen held up a plastic evidence bag. "Her bank statements for the past year. There's a deposit on the first of the month, every month – $3,000."

"Any indication of the source?"

"No. But as far as anyone knew, she didn't work."

Campbell spoke up for the first time. "The super said the apartment was rented in her name. The rent was always paid on time, in cash. He doesn't think she was paying the rent, but he doesn't know who did."

"But there was nothing in the apartment to indicate anyone else was living there – no men's clothes or anything like that," Marty added.

"There was something – " Karen began.

"What's that?" Fisk asked.

"The apartment was clean – I mean, _really_ clean – it almost looked unlived-in. It was like someone had scoured the place. It still smelled like bleach, a little."

"Not you, too," Marty muttered sarcastically.

Fisk ignored him. "You think she was killed there?"

"It's possible," Karen replied.

"I'll call Crime Scene," Fisk said. "Marty, Nate, you meet them there."

"We'll go, too," Karen said, "and re-canvass."

"OK. Hit it."


	7. Chapter 7

**Meet the New Boss**

_Chapter 7 _

Nate Campbell had just arrived at his desk at the beginning of the work day when the phone rang. He answered it. "Eighth squad, Detective Campbell . . . uh, sorry, he doesn't work here anymore . . . this is Detective Campbell, can I help? . . uh, OK."He hung up the phone and went back to work on his report.

"What was that about?" Karen asked him.

"Some guy asking for Dunbar, said his name was Sonny," Campbell replied.

"What?" Karen exclaimed, giving him a disgusted look. "You idiot!"

"Wha – ?" Campbell began.

Marty interrupted him. "Sonny is Dunbar's informant."

"Oh," Campbell said dejectedly. He thought for a minute, then added, "Let's get back in touch with him, then."

"Can't," Tom explained, as kindly as possible. "He's Jim's snitch, only works with him."

"But, but – " Campbell stammered.

"I'll call Jim, see if he can contact Sonny for us," Karen told him. She reached for her phone, muttering "idiot" under her breath.

Jim answered his cell phone. "Dunbar."

"Hey, Jim, it's Karen."

"Hey," he answered, smiling. It was a relief to hear a friendly voice.

"Listen, I know you probably can't talk," Karen began.

"Right."

"So just answer yes or no."

"OK," Jim agreed.

"Sonny called," she explained, "but we got a new guy, and he answered the phone. Sonny wouldn't talk to him, of course. Can you give Sonny a call, find out what he was calling you about?"

"Yeah, sure."

"OK. Call me back when you can. Everything OK there?"

Jim didn't answer her. "I'll call you later, OK?"

"Sure."

Jim ended the call and closed his phone. Adopting a sheepish expression, he shrugged and said, to no one in particular, "My wife."

A half hour later, Jim stood and slapped his thigh to signal Hank. "Taking the dog out," he said unnecessarily. No one answered him.

As soon as he was a block from the station, he pulled out his cell phone to call Sonny. "It's Dunbar," he said when Sonny answered. "You called?"

"Yeah, yeah, I called you at the station, but some guy said you weren't there – "

"I got transferred," Jim said curtly. "You got something for me?"

"Wha – ? Oh, yeah. You know the lady that was found in the dumpster, a few days ago?"

"Yeah. What about her?" Jim asked impatiently.

"A guy I know knew her – you know, really knew her. She used to be a hooker, but she – retired, I guess you'd say – a while back. My buddy said she had a sugar daddy now – some rich white guy who was keeping her."

"You got a name for me?"

"Sorry, no. But my guy said he was an old guy, over 50, gray hair, sharp dresser."

"OK." Jim paused, then added, "You get anything else on this, you call Karen – you know, my partner, you know her, she's cool."

"But, Dunbar – " Sonny protested.

"Call Karen," Jim repeated firmly. "It's not my case anymore." He ended the call, then called Karen and relayed the information he'd gotten from Sonny.

After Jim gave her the description of the DOA's "sugar daddy," Karen fell silent for a moment, then said, "Give that to me again – the description."

Jim repeated the description, then asked, "You looking at someone for the murder?"

"No, not yet," Karen said. After a moment, she asked tentatively, "Listen, Jim, how are things going there – really?"

"Oh, you know," Jim evaded.

"No, I don't," Karen told him firmly.

Jim sighed. "It's about what I expected," he finally said.

"That bad?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you meet Tom and Marty and me for a drink after work at Hennigan's?" she suggested, naming a bar near the 8th Precinct.

"OK," Jim agreed, "but I don't think we should meet there. How about Caruso's, down the street from my place – say, 6:30?"

"Good idea," Karen said.

"I gotta get back. See you later."

"Yeah. See you later."

Jim closed his phone and reluctantly headed back to the station.

* * *

Karen, Marty, and Tom walked into the dimly-lit bar. Karen spotted Jim sitting at a table in the far corner, with Hank at his feet and an empty beer bottle on the table in front of him. "There he is," she said, heading in his direction.

After their drinks arrived, Karen brought Jim up to date on the Matthews investigation, then asked, "So, what's happening at the 4-0?"

Jim shrugged. "Nothing much. Krause has me reviewing cold cases most of the time, he claims it isn't safe for me to go out in the field. And one of the other Ds, Dave Bartkowski, warned me that someone wants me gone – but he doesn't know who."

"Can't he help?"

"No. Krause has a snitch in the squad. Dave was taking a big risk just talking to me. Most of the time, he and the other Ds are too busy watching their own backs to think about watching mine. Hell, for all I know, Dave is the snitch and he was trying to set me up." Jim found his beer and drank, then added, "Honestly, I don't think I can trust anyone there."

"That is fucked up, man," Marty declared. He set his beer bottle down and scooped a handful of peanuts out of the bowl at the center of the table.

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Karen gave Jim a worried look, then asked him, "So what d'you think the plan is?"

Jim frowned. "I'm not sure. Could be they'll just try to wear me down until I quit – "

"Yeah, good luck with that," Marty quipped.

" – or they could be setting me up so they can claim I can't pull my weight, because I'm not clearing cases."

"Kinda hard to clear cases when they're not letting you work any," Karen pointed out.

"I'm telling you, Jim, the whole thing smells," Marty asserted.

Jim nodded wearily. "Yeah, I know." He finished his beer and set the bottle down. Distractedly, he ran his hand across the table top until he found the paper coaster the bottle had been sitting on. He fiddled with the coaster, folding and unfolding it until it split into two pieces.

"Who d'you think's behind it?" Tom asked. "The Chief?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't think so. If he wanted me gone, he wouldn't have waited this long to do it. Besides, the boss told me he backed off after I stopped carrying a gun."

Karen emptied her wineglass, then asked, "What about this Captain Greene?"

"I dunno – I never met the guy before. Why would he have it in for me?"

"That's what we need to find out," Marty declared. He signaled the cocktail waitress to bring them another round.

"You sure it's not Krause?" Karen asked. "You said you have a bad history with him, so . . . ."

"That's true," Jim agreed, "but I don't think he has the clout to engineer something like this. Someone higher up has to be behind it."

"We've been looking into Greene and Krause a little," Marty began.

Jim turned toward him, surprised. "Oh, yeah?"

Marty ignored him. "The word is Greene's the chief's 'enforcer' – you know, the guy who does the stuff the chief can't touch, he gives the chief deniability. And Krause – well, you already know about him. But we haven't found any connection between them, so far."

Karen spoke up. "But we're gonna keep digging. There's no way you ended up in Krause's squad just by chance."

"You sure this doesn't go back to something that happened when you worked with Krause at the 3-2?" Tom asked.

"I don't know," Jim said, "that's a long time to wait for payback. But with Krause – " He paused, thinking. "Yeah, it's possible, I guess." He shrugged, then added, "Listen, guys, I appreciate you looking into this, but you need to be careful. You don't want to get on the wrong side of these guys." He broke off when he heard the waitress arrive with their next round of drinks.

"You know, Jim," Tom suggested after the waitress left, "you should go to the union about this, file a grievance."

Jim shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"The union didn't back me when I was trying to get reinstated. You didn't know that?"

Tom gave Jim a surprised look, then said, "No, I wasn't the delegate back then."

"The leadership did a deal with the brass, got some kind of concession – I don't remember what – in exchange for them not supporting me. The department even got them to try and pressure me to give up the idea of going back on the job."

"Damn," Tom said, shaking his head, "I never knew that. What'd they do?"

"They told me if I went back on the job and couldn't cut it, they'd make sure I wouldn't be able to get disability. I'd have to wait until retirement age to get anything."

"Oh, man," Tom said, "that sucks. They not only want you out, they want to cut you off."

"Looks like it," Jim agreed. He checked his watch, then drained his bottle of beer. "I gotta go."

"OK," Marty said, "we'll keep digging."

"Thanks," Jim told him. He stood up, then grinned suddenly. "You know, I should be thanking you for something else, Marty."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

"Who d'you think taught me how to deal with an asshole like Krause?"

"You're welcome," Marty replied. "My mom told me to always help the handicapped."

Karen rolled her eyes and groaned.

"Just keep your head down and watch your back, OK?" Marty cautioned.

"You got it," Jim replied, slapping his thigh to signal Hank. The three other detectives watched in silence as he made his way out of the bar.


	8. Chapter 8

**Meet the New Boss**

_Chapter 8_

"Jimmy!" Walter Clark called when he saw Jim and Hank in the doorway of the Upper West Side coffee shop where they'd agreed to meet for breakfast. "Over here, ten o'clock," Walter added, rising to meet Jim. When Jim arrived at the table, Walter deftly guided his hand to the back of a chair, then resumed his own seat.

A waitress arrived with a coffee pot and menus. She handed a menu to Walter, then offered one to Jim. When Jim didn't take it, she said, "Oh . . . uh, sorry," before lapsing into a confused silence.

Jim shrugged it off. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. "No problem."

After the waitress poured the coffee and took their orders, Walter asked, "So you got transferred to the 4-0?"

"Yeah," Jim confirmed.

"How's it going there?"

Jim took a sip of coffee. "You know Phil Krause," he replied, with a pained expression.

"Yeah, I do. He still the same?"

"Yeah."

Walter frowned. "That's not good. You got any idea who's behind the transfer?"

"No. Do you?"

Walter thought for a moment. "Not really."

"I gotta ask you, Walter, do you think Lieutenant Fisk wanted me out of his squad?"

"No," Walter replied flatly. "What makes you think that?"

Jim shook his head. "I dunno. Fisk said he had nothing to do with the transfer and didn't even know about it, but Krause said – "

"Jimmy," Walter interrupted, "I know Gary Fisk – and so do you. If he wanted you out of his squad, he'd tell you to your face. You know that. Besides, since when do you believe anything Phil Krause says?"

"I know, I know. It's just – I don't know what to believe anymore. When Captain Greene told me I was being transferred – "

"It was Greene?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Walter shook his head. "Oh, man. He and Krause go back a long way."

"You're kidding me," Jim said in disbelief.

"No," Walter assured him. "It was before your time, but they worked together in Vice, must be ten, fifteen years ago, at least."

Jim thought for a moment, then pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Karen, it's Jim," he said. "Have you pulled the arrest reports on the DOA? . . .You need to do that – and check who the arresting officer was . . .Yeah . . .Greene and Krause used to work together, in Vice . . .Yeah, Walter told me, just now . . . OK." He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

"What's that about?" Walter asked.

"My last case at the 8," Jim explained.

"Sounds to me like you're still working it."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Walter picked up his coffee cup and drank, then said, "Listen, Jim, if Greene and Krause are involved, there's something bent about this whole situation."

"You got that right," Jim agreed.

"I'll talk to some people I know, see what I can find out."

"Thanks."

"You just hang in there and stay out of Phil's way."

"I don't have much choice, do I?" Jim took off his glasses and rubbed his eye, then bowed his head, looking discouraged.

Walter gave his friend a worried look. Then he noticed the waitress arriving with their food and changed the subject. "How's that beautiful wife of yours?" he asked.

* * *

"Thanks," Karen said as she hung up the phone.

"What was that about?" Marty asked.

"That was Jim," she replied. "He thinks we should check the arrest reports on the DOA, see who the arresting officers were."

"What for?"

"He said Captain Greene and Lieutenant Krause used to work together, in Vice."

Two hours later, Karen and Tom returned from Records with copies of Joyce Matthews' arrest reports. "Bingo," Tom said, dropping them on his desk.

"What did you find?" Campbell asked.

"Phil Krause was the arresting officer the last time Joyce was arrested. Kevin Greene was the sergeant who signed off on the report. The charges were dropped."

Marty noticed Karen staring thoughtfully out the window. "What's up?" he asked her.

"Just thinking."

"What, you're channeling Dunbar now?"

"Maybe," she replied with a smile. "Remember the description Sonny gave us of Joyce's 'sugar daddy'? When we re-canvassed, the neighbors said they saw a man fitting that description coming and going from her apartment."

"Well, that would make sense, if he was the 'sugar daddy'," Marty pointed out.

"Yeah," Karen agreed, then continued, " – and one of them saw him there the night before Joyce's body was found. I was thinking, we've seen someone recently who fits that description – "

Tom finished the sentence for her. " – Captain Greene."

Karen nodded. "You got it. And now we know there's a connection between him and Krause and the DOA."

Marty thought for a minute. "We better talk to the boss," he said, "this is gonna get real sticky."

The squad crowded into Fisk's office. Tom closed the door behind them. The lieutenant listened, his expression growing increasingly concerned, as Karen explained her theory. When she finished, he asked, frowning, "Do you know what you're suggesting?"

"Yes," Karen assured him, as Marty and Tom nodded in support.

"What's your theory about the motive?" Fisk asked.

Karen thought for a minute. "I'm not sure," she finally answered. "There are a couple of possibilities. Maybe he wanted to break it off, and she didn't, or maybe she was blackmailing him, and he got tired of paying."

"Could be," Fisk agreed. "Did Crime Scene get anything from the apartment?"

"The apartment was pretty well scoured," Tom answered, "but they found some traces of blood spatter. It looks like she was killed there. As of yesterday afternoon, they hadn't found any usable prints. They said the place was wiped down pretty good."

"What's your next step?" Fisk asked.

"Bring in the neighbors and have them look at a photo line-up, see if they can ID Captain Greene," Karen said.

Fisk sighed. "OK. Get going."

On her way to the door, Karen stopped and turned back toward the lieutenant. "There's one other thing, boss."

"What's that?"

"This explains why Jim got transferred. Working in the Chief's office, Greene must've heard about the cases Jim's cleared since he's been here. I bet Greene didn't want him anywhere near this one."

"Yeah," Tom agreed, "or maybe he thought, if Jim was transferred, that would create a distraction."

"And either way, he gives his old buddy Krause a chance to go after Jim," Marty pointed out.

"It all fits, boss," Karen asserted.

Fisk nodded grimly. "Just keep me informed – every step of the way."

By late afternoon, four of Joyce Matthews' neighbors had positively identified Captain Greene as the man they'd seen coming and going from her apartment, including the neighbor who saw him there the night before Joyce's body was found in the dumpster. Fisk shook his head sadly when Karen told him. "This is a bad day for the Department," he said.

Karen nodded gravely. "Yeah," she agreed. "And it's not gonna get any better. We need to get a warrant to get his DNA and search his home."

"I'll call IAB," Fisk told her, picking up the phone. "We need to turn this over to them now. Oh, and Karen, this stays in the squad."

"I know," she replied, "but don't you think we should let Jim know? If Krause finds out we're looking at Greene for the murder, he's gonna turn up the heat on Jim, I know he will. I should warn him. And you know Jim, he can keep his mouth shut. Besides," she added bitterly, "he says no one there talks to him anyway."

"OK," Fisk agreed, "just make sure he knows to keep it to himself."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Close the door on your way out, please."

* * *

"OK." Jim ended another one-sided conversation with Karen and closed his phone.

Before he could replace his earpiece and get back to work, Krause called out to him from his office. "Dunbar, my office, right now," he ordered.

Shit, Jim thought as he made his way to Krause's office. What now?

Krause wasted no time letting him know. "Who were you talking to?" he demanded.

"My wife," Jim lied, trying to keep his expression unreadable.

"You talk to your wife like that?"

"She's used to it," Jim told him curtly, trying not to think about what Christie would say about that.

"You sure it wasn't that pretty partner of yours from the 8?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Oh, yeah? I bet she's sweet on you – or maybe you're sweet on her."

"No," Jim said stiffly.

"Well, what about all those times you have to go walk the dog?"

"What about it?" Jim asked.

"You're telling me the dog can't hold it?"

"He has to be on a very strict schedule – " Jim started to explain.

Krause cut him off. "Don't give me that crap. I know what you're doing. I catch you talking to your little partner or any of your buddies from the 8, you're taking a rip. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Jim snapped. Without waiting for Krause to dismiss him, he turned and walked back to his desk, not noticing or caring when he collided with the door frame on the way out of Krause's office. Scowling, Krause slammed the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Meet the New Boss**

_Chapter 9_

When Jim heard raised voices coming from Krause's office, he took out his earpiece and paused the computer-generated voice that was reading the report he'd scanned. He guessed the door was closed, because he couldn't make out any words or identify the other voice, but he thought Krause sounded angry. He wondered what the argument was about. Maybe they were finally going after Krause, now that he'd been linked to Greene and the Matthews case. He had no idea what was happening with the case. Two long days had passed with no word from Karen, and after his last conversation with Krause, he couldn't risk calling her when he left the station to walk Hank. Someone could follow him out of the station house without his knowledge.

"What's happening?" he asked.

He didn't really expect an answer, but Bartkowski surprised him. "I dunno," he said, "but the Chief of Ds is in with the boss. Boss don't look too happy."

Jim shrugged and reached for his earpiece, but before he could pick it up, Krause called from his office, "Dunbar, get your ass in here – _now_."

A little apprehensively, Jim headed for the lieutenant's office. Just what he needed, he thought, a chat with Krause _and_ the Chief of Ds.

When Jim entered the office, Chief Tunney looked at Krause and nodded, expecting the lieutenant to tell Jim he was present. Instead, Krause remained silent, his arms folded, and looked away. "It's Chief Tunney, Detective Dunbar," Tunney finally said, sounding surprisingly friendly.

"Chief," Jim replied, extending his hand in Tunney's direction.

After shaking Jim's hand, Tunney glanced at Krause, frowning, then continued, more formally, "Detective, it has been brought to my attention that you were re-assigned here in error. I have rescinded your transfer. You are to report back to Lieutenant Fisk at the 8th Precinct immediately. Lieutenant Fisk will fill you in."

At first, Jim could hardly believe what he was hearing. Then the Chief's words sank in, and a wave of relief swept over him. His exile was over. Determined not to show any reaction, he kept his expression a blank. He merely nodded and said, "Yes, sir."

"That's all." Tunney turned to leave. "Lieutenant. Detective." He nodded to both of them, then strode to the door and out of the office.

Krause glared at Jim ineffectually. "What're you waiting for?" he demanded. "You heard the Chief. Get out of here."

Without answering him, Jim turned to leave.

"And, Dunbar, I never want to see your face around here again."

"Me neither," Jim muttered under his breath.

"What's that?"

"On my way, _sir_," Jim replied. He went back to his desk.

"What was that about?" Bartkowski asked him.

"I'm being sent back to the 8 – apparently, there was some kind of mistake," Jim replied noncommittally.

"Jeez, something's always fucked up around here," Bartkowski commented.

"Yeah." Jim sat down at his desk, still stunned by the sudden turn of events. It seemed too good to be true, but he'd been sprung from the 4-0. He wasn't sure how it had happened, but at that moment, all he cared about was getting out of there.

Jim wasted no time as he packed up his belongings. He wasn't going to stick around any longer than he absolutely had to. Silently cursing the need to work carefully and systematically, he finished his packing as quickly as possible, then ran his hands across the desktop to make sure he hadn't missed anything. If he left anything behind, there was no way in hell he was coming back for it. When he was sure he had everything, he stood up and signaled to Hank.

"Good luck, Jim," Bartkowski said when he saw Jim was ready to leave.

"Yeah," he replied, then added, with a wave of his hand, "Good luck, guys." They would need it, he thought, as he walked down the hall and out of the 4-0 – for good.

* * *

Fisk hung up the phone and called the squad into his office, a grimly satisfied expression on his face. "The Chief of Ds called," he announced after Tom closed the door behind them. "IAB found a saw in Captain Greene's tool box that matches the saw marks on Joyce's bones. The s.o.b. was so sure no one would ever suspect him, he didn't even get rid of it. Looks like he just washed it off and threw it back in his tool box. The lab found some traces of blood and bone on it anyway. And his DNA came back a match to the samples the ME took. IAB has had him under surveillance ever since they executed the search warrant. They're on their way to arrest him now."

Marty pointed at Karen and gave her a knowing look.

Karen smiled to herself, looking thoughtful. "What about Lieutenant Krause?" she asked.

Fisk shook his head. "IAB talked to him, but the guy's slippery," he said, frowning. "He claims he didn't know anything about Greene and Joyce. He says Greene told him One PP decided Jim was a liability and had to go, and Greene ordered him to make that happen. There's nothing to prove otherwise, and you can bet Greene's not gonna be talking."

"Son of a bitch," Marty muttered.

"Yeah." Thinking they were dismissed, the detectives started to leave. Then Fisk smiled and added, "Oh, by the way, the Chief has rescinded Jim's transfer. He's on his way back here from the 4-0."

"_Yes!_" Karen exclaimed, with a little fist pump.

Fisk looked at her indulgently. "That's all."

After they returned to their desks, Tom and Karen exchanged high fives, while Marty sat down, smiling and shaking his head at the same time. Campbell looked uneasy.

"Don't worry, kid," Marty told him. "You just got lucky. They'll transfer you out of here, and you won't have to work with the famous blind detective."

* * *

"Jim!" Karen exclaimed when she saw him and Hank walk into the squad room. Karen, Tom, and Marty left their desks and went to greet him. Campbell took a couple of tentative steps toward them, then hung back, watching the scene with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.

Fisk came out of his office. "Welcome back, Jim."

"Thanks, boss." Jim shook Fisk's hand and headed for his desk. When he was almost there, Marty spoke up.

"Hey, Jim, you know what this means, don't you?"

Jim stopped and turned toward him. "No, what's that?"

"They can never get rid of you now. We're stuck with you."

Jim grinned at him and continued walking toward his desk. Marty turned to Tom. "Now _that's_ smug," he said, jerking his head toward Jim. Still smiling, Jim sat down at his desk and leaned back in his chair. He was back.


End file.
